Attila: The Judgement

by William Napier

  Of the two companies of Imperial Guard, one hundred and sixty men in all, over sixty were dead and another forty or so wounded beyond fighting. That ratio alone spoke volumes; and that percentage. Well over half the Palatine Guard was destroyed, and every single one of them had shed blood this last day and night. For Attila, though, those piles of Hun dead at the foot of the walls were only a fraction of his forces. Of the forty-four wolf-lords, only three were slain, and three lay in the Emmanuel Hospital. Astonishing figures, and no reflection of the bravery with which they had fought, all day and all night, unrelenting. Even Andronicus was forced to admit that they had taken so few casualties because they were such skilled and ferocious fighters. Flaxen-haired giants, they fought like lions.

  As for the eighty Isaurian auxiliaries, again, more than half were dead or else wounded beyond fighting. Their active numbers were down to thirty. Of the citizens who had given their lives for their beloved Holy City - ordinary men, fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, men whose only skill in life was to bake bread, or hammer horseshoes, or even trim beards - the number slain was beyond reckoning.

  Down there below them, those slaughtered heaps of feathered and tattooed wild men, who had fought virtually naked, tooth and claw, howling in a language that none but Aëtius himself understood - they too were fathers, husbands, brothers, sons. It was too terrible. It was nothing but loss and waste. This was the time, when the battle ebbed and stilled awhile, that grief could overwhelm even the strongest man. What had they fought each other for, these fathers and sons? What had it all been about?

  Aëtius, Tatullus and Andronicus stood silently side by side on the tower, watching unarmed Huns returning under the burning midday sun to retrieve their dead and take them back for decent mourning and burial. It was a foul task which would take hours. Aëtius did not need to give the order not to fire on them. None of the defenders would be so cruel. He bowed his head. His heart was like a stone with sorrow.

  Behind them, one of the guards suddenly muttered, ‘Oh my God, no.’

  The three exhausted men turned round.

  Turning round also to look back across the city they had fought so courageously to defend, their backs to the armies of Attila, all along the walls exhausted men were sinking down to their knees, dropping their weapons, calling on the name of Christ and weeping openly. For the Holy City was lost.

  The air was still, distant smoke rising into the autumnal air, the sun bright on the city’s rain-washed golden domes, starlings still wheeling about the spires, the monks still chanting the Kyrie, sweetly oblivious. Away to the east, near the Imperial Palace itself, tall flames were licking up into the pale September sky like flames going up from a pyre.

  22

  ST BARBARA GATE

  ‘Sir,’ cried a runner, appearing up the side steps, his hobnailed sandals ringing on the stone. ‘News from the city, sir.’

  Aëtius said, ‘We can see.’

  The Huns were inside the city after all, and all was lost. They had made it, tunnelling in under the walls, or perhaps by treachery, an unremarked postern gate unlatched for them by some craven Byzantine Judas for thirty pieces of silver. Already the eastern end of the city was burning. Soon they would hear the distant cry and wail of the people. The soldiers and citizens on the walls could not speak, gazing out over the suffering city aghast. All they had fought for was finished. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken us? It is finished.

  Beyond that, all of Asia was finished, too. There was nothing left to oppose the Huns’ murderous progress. Rome did indeed stand alone, her sister city destroyed, and her inevitable destiny, as Aëtius could well judge now, inscribed in stone. They themselves, the last of the few, were effectively surrounded, attackers before and behind, and this battered wall a mere promontory in a sea of blood. The city they had fought so hard to defend was already taken. Words came back to him from the past: ‘You are fighting for a cause that is already lost.’

  He, Tatullus and Andronicus gripped their sword-hilts tightly. Captain, centurion, master-general of East and West: all three would die like common bloody soldiers today, shoulder to shoulder, and proud of it.

  Surely it was the Imperial Palace itself that was burning? Aëtius’ eyes were bright with emotion and despair. The view was increasingly obscured by a thickening pall of funeral smoke, but somewhere in that palace was the woman he loved - had always loved. He saw the scene. Tattooed warriors howling down marble corridors, priceless statues thrown down and broken, mosaics smashed, cloth-of-gold tapestries cut to ribbons and burned, prayer books, gospels and missals spat on and abused, slaves hung from hooks, or bound to pillars and used for target practice, maidservants raped and murdered, debauched even where they lay groaning in their own blood. The emperor pitifully down on his knees, babbling and pleading. She, the young, brilliant, bright-eyed daughter of Leontes of Athens, so full of youthful innocence and hope when he first saw her, now ravished and slain.

  With his very last ounce of strength, Aëtius shouted the summons: ‘All men standing, to me!’

  It was still just possible they might find her ... a rescue ... a seaward escape ...

  The three hurried down the steps to inspect the gathering men, a pitiful scraping of less than a hundred, badged with wounds, hollow-eyed, sleepwalking into nightmare. Aëtius did not even heed the arrival of a second runner.

  ‘Sir, news from the St Barbara Gate,’ he panted.

  So that was where they had come in. From the sea, after all. With the aid of their Vandal allies? It could be.

  ‘Company!’ he cried out. ‘Forward!’

  The few surged into a fast trot, every sinew crying out against it.

  ‘Sir,’ gasped the runner, only a youngster, trotting alongside, ‘the Vandal fleet is destroyed.’

  Through what felt like smoke inside his head, the words slowly penetrated. Aëtius called the halt, and stared at the runner. The fellow was still panting.

  ‘Repeat,’ he rasped.

  ‘The Vandal Fleet ... mouth of the Golden Horn ... burning.’

  It was like a slow dawn coming up. A slow, beautiful dawn over a desolate, frozen plain.

  ‘The city is not taken?’

  The runner frowned. ‘Not that I know of, sir.’

  The men had already broken formation, against all the rules, and were crowding round.

  ‘Speak, man, for God’s sake!’ roared Tatullus, close to skulling the poor wretch with the butt of his short-sword.

  The runner spoke rapidly. ‘The defenders attacked the approaching fleet with everything they had - clay pots of quicklime, serpents, scorpions, chains and flails, spiked slingballs, anything that might cut through the rowers’ overhead screens. They also moved operations up to the roof of the Church of St Demetrius, despite the priests’ objections. The Vandal ships tried to pull back, only to find themselves crammed up against the Great Chain with a following wind, and having trouble getting back out. The attack took them by surprise. And then the defenders launched another kind of weapon. There was this great flash, and at the same time, the St Barbara Gate was ... sort of ... singed - but also a great sheet of flame shot out across the water and hit the nearest couple of ships. It was as if the flames were actually clinging to the timbers. The sails went up like oilpaper, sir, and what with the following wind - only a light breeze off the Bosphorus, really, but enough - the rest of the Vandal ships soon caught fire as well. That’s them,’ waving eastwards, ‘still burning.’

  Aëtius was suddenly racing back up the steps to the platform of Gate V, the runner and the men all hurrying after, still stunned and silent, but a light beginning to shine again in their eyes.

  The general waved towards the palace. ‘So the city’s not burning?’

  ‘Only’ - the runner coughed, as if slightly embarrassed - ‘only the St Barbara Gate, sir, a bit. But ... but the enemy fleet is all but destroyed, many of their sailors and marines killed in the firestorm, and even when they leaped into the water, it was like a holy
miracle, sir, they—’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Aëtius in a low voice. ‘They continued to burn. So maybe not all Cretans are liars after all.’

  Then he did a most ungeneral-like thing. He threw his right arm around the lad’s shoulders, hugged him, ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head like he was his son, and said he’d be getting a gold solidus before the day was out. The boy looked pink and pleased, and a huge roar went up from the men, and all along the walls. From the houses people slowly emerged, and from the churches came priests, and from the hospital came the shuffling figure of Gamaliel, suddenly looking old now, but his eyes dancing, and with him several bandaged and faltering figures on crutches. And then everyone was cheering.

  ‘But, sir, I must emphasise,’ said the lad, determined to transmit his message in its solemn entirety, ‘that the St Barbara Gate is very badly compromised.’

  At that grave news, Aëtius said something about Huns swimming as well as cats, and bugger the St Barbara Gate, and began to laugh, his eyes watering, slapping his comrades on the back, chest heaving, face running with tears, all decorum gone.

  More messages came. The emperor and empress sent greetings, and bade them all give thanks for God’s mercy.

  ‘Always nice to be appreciated,’ growled Knuckles, jabbing the ground with his club.

  ‘The alchemist, the Cretan, what’s his name, Nicias,’ demanded Aëtius. ‘He’s still with us?’

  ‘He is, sir, and drunk with victory.’

  ‘Let him stay that way. Meanwhile, we must get news of this to the Huns. Any setback to their allies is a bonus to us.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the runner, ‘a Hun war-party was spotted on the hills above Galata during the sea-battle.’

  ‘Observing, you mean? You think they saw?’

  ‘They must have done, sir. They’d left by the end of the show.’

  Aëtius grinned. ‘Spread the news.’ He broke into a stride again, his voice rising, his energy renewed. ‘All church bells to ring twenty-eight full peals! Spread the word throughout the city. A massive naval battle has been fought off the Horn, our Vandal enemies have been driven before the fiery Breath of God, our gallant artillerymen and our ingenious men of science have triumphed over a flotilla of thousands. You’re runners and heralds, for God’s sake! Run and herald! Publish the news! The Battle of Constantinople is already half won. Scram!’

  Among the soldiers, the outburst of joy subsided into tired grins all round.

  ‘That’s marvellous, sir!’ said Malchus. ‘The battle half won already!’

  Aëtius drawled, still grinning despite his words, ‘Of course it’s not, you dolt - that’s absolute bollocks. The Vandal ships were never more than a side-show. The battle’s less than a hundredth won. But morale is everything. Now, back to your posts.’

  Hobnailed boots rang on stone. ‘Sir!’

  No more Hun attacks came that afternoon, and towards evening the sky clouded and it drizzled again. In the greying light, Aëtius stood on the tower and gazed out. A mosquito hummed nearby. He slapped his neck. Heavy clouds rolled in from the south, the wind got up, and it began to rain harder. He flung an oiled woollen cloak round his aching shoulders. The rain drummed the plains to an indistinct mist. Tonight he might actually get some sleep.

  An hour later, and the rain still fell. Out there beyond the moat, its surface stippled like pewter by the rain, the Huns’ ten thousand tents were camped amid mud and swamp. Many bodies had been burned, but many of the Hun dead still lay round about. The stench must be awful in that rough camp. Was it wrong to pray to the God of Love to bring pestilence on men? Yet remember the plagues of Egypt, Aëtius prayed.

  23

  THE SICKNESS

  In his tent Attila sat glowering, digesting the news that the Vandal fleet had been destroyed. No, it was no more than a side-show, but it was damnable news nevertheless. Astur’s punishment, perhaps, for his beloved People having allied with Teutons, ancient enemies? But Attila refused to believe that. All the world would be united under his rule one day. Astur still spread his mighty wings over their heads. The sword of Savash still shone brightly. Attila himself liked to forget its spurious provenance, and treated that sword as a holy thing. So faiths grow.

  A warrior appeared in the tent door, crouching low. Attila glared at him. All news was bad news these days.

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘The Lord Aladar, Great Tanjou. He has the shivering sickness.’

  This, too.

  In a matter of hours, it seemed, the pestilence had swept through the camp. Unaccustomed to living so densely packed together amid so many numberless tents, unaccustomed to stagnation, accustomed only to the rapturous solitude of the clean and windswept plains, the Hun people found living in a foul-smelling city of felt and canvas disgusting. And their bodies sickened from it along with their souls.

  Attila had summoned their families from the north before the frozen Scythian winter, to join them here on the plains and witness their victory. Living like the barbarians of old, warriors, ancients, women and children all together; a mighty host of perhaps half a million, stripping the land bare, looting and pillaging for their daily bread, and yet there was never enough. Hunger and pestilence stalked the camp. The rivers were foul with their refuse. Now many, even the strongest of the warriors, lay sick with fever in their tents, vomiting and shaking uncontrollably. Then within hours, unbelievably, though it seemed they had done no more than drink too much koumiss, or eat bad meat, the next thing they were dead. Widows wailed, pyres burned, and the news kept coming to Attila. He turned away. The enemy must not know. Did they not suffer, too, behind their city walls?

  The pyres grew larger, the dead were many, and more of the People were falling ill by the hour. How could this be happening, beneath the great protective outspread wings of Astur the All-Father? Yet the air was heavy, and the wings of the Eagle God stretched from horizon to horizon were a louring grey. They did not seem wings to give shelter to men. The witch Enkhtuya recited many spells and performed many shadowy rituals. For a while the rain ceased and the sun shone, and the mosquitoes hummed by night, and at dawn under the rising sun the wet earth and the befouled rivers stank the worse; and then the rain came again. How the People longed for the peace of the dry and windy plains.

  Now the Lord Aladar was sick, handsome Aladar, with his seven wives too many.

  ‘And, Great Tanjou,’ said the warrior, still crouched, his voice hesitant and afraid, ‘Queen Checa.’

  Attila raised his head, his deep-set eyes unblinking, his thoughts inscrutable.

  Queen Checa lay on her back with her eyes barely open, her fine, high-cheekboned face drawn into a tightness painful to behold. Attila ordered the women out and knelt by her side. He was in there all night and all the next day. That was why the Hun attack on the city came to a halt. The siege no longer seemed to concern him. His remaining generals, old Chanat, Geukchu, Noyan and Orestes, awaited their orders. But none came.

  At dusk the King emerged from the Queen’s tent and stood outside a while, breathing heavily, looking at the ground.

  Orestes eventually went to him. He knew what had happened. He was still framing in his mind what he might say - what worthless consolation he might give - for Attila had loved his first wife very much. She had married him when he was no more than an exiled and penniless prince by birth, a bandit chieftain by trade, and she had stayed with him all those bitter years, bearing him sons and daughters, riding with him, salving and tending his many wounds. There had been a deep, unspoken love between them.

  Before Orestes could speak, Attila shrugged his powerful shoulders, raised his head and said, ‘All men must die. And all women, too.’ Then he strode away.

  Checa was buried without great ceremony at the edge of a flattened orchard. Attila showed no emotion, but a light had gone from his eyes.

  Aladar, too, lay on his sickbed, his eyes red-rimmed, his face streaked with sweat, his fine long raven hair plastered to his cheeks
.

  Chanat entered his tent.

  ‘Father,’ he murmured.

  Chanat knelt beside him. His ribcage heaved with sobs.

  Aladar became agitated. ‘Father, I see such terrible things.’ He tried to sit up, but was too weak. His voice rasped hoarse and desperate. ‘I see this tent on fire. I see the whole world on fire. I see the People crucified all along a barren track across a desert. I see even Astur himself ’ - his voice shuddered - ‘a great eagle, with an arrow—’

  ‘Hush, boy, hush,’ said Chanat, laying his rough hand across his son’s forehead. ‘It is the fever. It is all a fever dream.’

  Slowly the agitation subsided, and when Aladar spoke again his voice was calm, though he still fought for every breath. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘let me not die in sickbed. Let me not die like a woman in childbed.’